


Apocalyptica

by Anonymous



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Extremely Dubious Consent, Humor, I know shocking, Multi, No Plot/Plotless, Post-Apocalypse, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Violence, sort of fallout au sort of not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 08:40:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14101590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Post apocalyptic America isn't exactly the easiest place to find a stable place of work. Jason tries to make use of an unconventional method of work when he's desperate and if that doesn't just open the door for every Tom, Dick and Harry looking to get their rocks off.





	Apocalyptica

**Author's Note:**

> It's just bad guys

If Jason owned a time machine--and let’s face it there had to be one out there at this point--he would use it immediately.

No thinking about the effect on the time-space continuum and the ethics of manipulating past decisions. He’d use that sucker to go right back to the day he decided that whoring was a good route to go for cash. He’d find and wail on his past self until that snot-nosed brat thought hey, maybe fucking people for coin is a fucking _asinine_ idea. Right after he stops thinking about the fact there was two of him. Worst mistake of his life, period.

The idea, if Jason remembers correctly, wasn’t technically _his_ anyways. He had been holed up in the remnants of the Ace o' Clubs bar for a few days, because fuck Gotham, and running on empty. He wasn’t as good of a shot then as he is now, so catching his own food was a hit or miss. It had been three days with nothing but scraps, only enough coins in his pocket to an overpriced glass of water. Forget sleeping in beds, at that point he had found ways to sleep standing straight up. Purchasing bullets was out of the question. There were a few residents in Suicide Slums nice enough to slide him the unwanted leftovers on the cheap--Father Leone was one of them--so long as Bibbo, the owner, wasn’t in.

So that’s where he had gone when his stomach had started making enough noise to wake the entire Eastern seaboard. Jason sat there, staring at other people as they got to eat, while he waited for them to leave their unfinished food at the table. Lucky fuckers. If only he'd learned it was better to dig through garbage than watch people eat like a begging puppy. If only he didn’t sit there and see some suited out-of-town trader waltz up to Circe with a bag overflowing with gold and drop them in her lap with a cocky smile. If only he hadn’t watched that man turn around and book a room, penthouse, top floor. If only he hadn’t watched Circe slip out of her chair, demeanor doing a full 180, and follow him back to the room for what must have been an hour. Tops.

If only he didn’t think, _wow that is fucking easy_.

And that’s all he needed to see apparently. Because when he ran across a woman who had been making eyes at him the whole night he rolled into the next town, it seemed only natural to ask her. Which she obliged, super fucking graciously he might add. He'd only slept with someone maybe three times before, and the majority was just a lot of grunting and repeating, “is this good?” She was a real sport, considering the fact he was flaccid through half of the foreplay. She had a husky laugh though and paid him the original amount they had settled on. _A for effort kiddo_ , she smirked when he came a tad too early.

He should have called it quits after that. Counted his lucky stars and moved on with his life. Nope, no sir, not Jason Peter Todd. Can’t see a fluke when it smacks him in the face. He was back at it again the next night, sliding up to every single woman in the bar asking if they’d like to spend the night with, wait for it, _this guy_.

Clearly the wrong way to go about it since all he got were drinks thrown on him. He ended up spending the next few days nursing his wounded ego.

He finally showed his face around town three days after the bad run at the bar. Head hung low trying to avoid the residents like they were dripping with radiation while he moved from building to building searching for food or ammunition.

He didn’t even see the guy at first, let alone hear him approach until a hand was on his backside. Jason must have jumped ten feet out of his own skin and whipped around to face his ‘companion.’ He had a loose jaw that shone with drool and a twitchy eye. Scars ran up and down his arm, curved like little tally marks.

Eyed Jason with the kind of black eyes teddy bears have and asked, "fifty pennies for a quickie?"

Jason had been ready to open his mouth for a big “fuck no thanks,” but his stomach jacked control of his mouth and he mumbled out the weakest “ok” of his life. He wondered how young Jason, or an hour ago Jason, would have handled the knowledge that at some point in his life he’d be blowing a guy who ear-fucked him with a finger simultaneously.

He shudders. Yeah, still as gross as he remembered.

But it was like a taste of the absolute shit-pile that awaited him once he accepted those fifty coins. _Signing a deal with the devil more like it_. After that every raider, drug addict, slaver, and who knows what else in a fifty-mile radius heard that ol’ Jason Todd the former shithead pickpocket from Gunn's orphanage, who started pissing people off the day he wandered out that godforsaken place, was willing to suck or take dick for cheap.

It was only after the influx of traffic that he learned, hey money up front motherfucker, because a good portion of clients did not like paying. He didn’t realize that a lot of trouble started when he insisted on payment. They’d huff and growl about taking what they wanted anyway, which was, of course, terrifying in its own way. That was until he started saying that if they didn’t pay he’d just talk and talk and talk. Turns out not everyone likes him talking. He should be offended but hey, at least, that got them to begrudgingly hand their coins over. Or at least, knock him out stone cold like the upstanding raiders they were.

Or they just came back later, angry that they spent their drug money on him instead of their drug du jour. He’s had to get pretty good at running.

“It’s too high,” a throaty voice grumbles nearby. Oh just fuck him, man alive. He just wanted one day, just one day, the universe can’t even give him that can it?

Jason glances away from the brick wall he had let himself stare at for hours as he tried to get some shut-eye. Paying to sleep in a room was for suckers, or people richer than he could ever hope to be at this point. He squints in the dark of early morning to make out two or maybe three large shapes, blocking the alleyway exit from view. He raises an eyebrow when the speaker doesn’t clarify their statement and just stands there in silence with their shadowed companions.

He uncrosses his arms slightly, leaning further back against the wall. "What?"

"A hundred is too high,” the voice is smoke-rough, hard like metal scraping on stone. The voice is also recognizable, a few weeks ago maybe? Yeah, he definitely remembers that voice from a few weeks ago. Asked for a night and got a little ‘upset’ when Jason gave him the standard fee. Not his problem. Him showing up now with his friends screamed “run you dumb shit,” like an air raid siren, bad news. But Jason had fought off a junkie for this sleeping spot. It’d be a shame to give it up.

Jason shrugs. “If you want cheaper, better start looking elsewhere, big guy," then returns his attention to the wall in front of him. Certainly not focusing on the shadows that start to stretch across the front of his feet.

“We’re already here,” they were a few feet away at this point, the streetlights glinting off their holstered handguns. They were bigger up close.

Jason sighs and pulls his hood down to block his eyes. “Man, that sucks for you.”

The closest one branches off, coming to a halt in front of Jason. His face, if it could even be called one, was rugged with burn scars down the left side. The other half is kind of handsome, must have been the most popular man in post-nuclear America at one point. Not so much now.  

"Personal space? Did Mom not bother teaching you any manners because she figured you wouldn't need them?" Jason adjusts his arms so he can grab the knife up his sleeve when need be.

Here's a lesson. Mouth meet Brain. Brain, Mouth. Hey Brain, do me a favor? Make Mouth shut the fuck up because Jason's rate of survival plummets at least a good sixty-five percent whenever it's involved.

The man with the two faces grabs him around the collar hoists him against the wall.

“We aren’t here to be polite,” Two-Face growls, all rough and scratchy, packing probably what was eighty pounds on him. Guy was fucking huge. He’d give almost anything to find out what kind of diet he had to pack on the muscle. He was probably a cannibal, he bet five hundred coins on it.

When Jason doesn’t respond Two-Face throws him about as easy as a newborn kitten. Cause that’s what happens when you’re broke as fuck and can’t afford sewer rat meat. Jason lands against the concrete with a wheeze and rolls onto his side. Slowly pushes himself to his feet and whips out the curved knife strapped to his wrist. Hoping somewhere that Lady Luck was looking down on his unfortunate, sorry ass and would bless him enough to get one in the jugular. The three laugh at him and spread out as much as the alleyway would allow. He gets a good look at the rest of them now. The man in the middle is biggest of the three, horribly disfigured with what looks like lumps of scales jutting out of his skin. That's not even taking the gnarly, sharp teeth poking out from between cracked lips. He didn't even need a gun with those, practically had the maw of a crocodile.

The last man is considerably slimmer. Dressed in a pinstriped grey suit with a wilting carnation tucked into the jacket pocket. His face, like the others, is mangled and, if Jason can even say, is worse than the others. Jason thinks it's a mask at first. There's no way someone can be alive with that kind of damage. Two little beady eyes stare at him from the hollows of skull's eye sockets. As if the mutated wildlife from the nuclear radiation didn't give him enough nightmares, these Three Musketeers will be doing it for a long time.

He wasn’t about to get into a fist fight with Two-Face if the shove was anything to go by, and shooting for the middle was too obvious.

Option C it was then. He leaps forward using his lighter frame to dodge the hands that try to snatch his coat to drive the knife home into Black Mask's face's chest. Only the man expects it, swinging into him with a fist that barrels into his stomach. The other grabs his knife-wielding hand.

It's like getting sucker-punched by a gorilla. The punch forces the air out of his lungs like an explosion and sends him flying back. He can't really tell where he ends up, the whole world's spinning. A hand, still holding his wrist, squeezes so hard Jason worries it might pop off until he drops the knife. Then another hand, bigger than the first, grabs a fistful of his leather jacket heaves him up before slamming him against the wall.

“Man you guys drive a hard bargain,” he sputters out when he starts getting air back. “How about fifty?”

“I’m thinkin’ zero,” Croc growls in his face, breath hot and vile.

“Damn you’re good, twenty-five, take it or leave it.” A meaty fist wraps around his throat and clenches down tight enough Jason sees stars. Air? What air? Jason barely got his breath back before Croc forces it out again. He hears someone shouting something, but the words sound fuzzy and far off. Is this how he's going to die? Strangled to death in a back alley because he wasn’t willing to give up free goods? He guesses it sounds like a cool enough way to go. Right there next to defending family and friends valiantly.

Apparently, that didn’t please Mr. Walking Eyesore because he’s lifted up in the air again and tossed to the side for a second time. He props himself up on his elbows when nobody moves closer. Doesn't try to run. It wasn’t so much giving up more like selected resignation. It would be like running into a brick wall over and over again. Desperate. At least like this, he has a chance to feel some sort of control.

“Twenty-four, I’m feeling pretty generous today.” The swift kick to his legs is expected but he yelps out in pain anyway.

“So are we, we’ll only beat you half to death,” Two-Face threatens as he crouches down next to him.

“God that sounds boring,” another kick, but to his ribs this time with a definite crack. “Steel-toed boots, nice touch, I’m a combat boot man myself,” he wheezes out as he curls into a makeshift ball.

“You better learn to hold that tongue, boy,” Croc grabs him by hair and yanks him up.

“It’s kind of hard to hold something still attached,” he hisses and decides, meh, he’ll make it hard for them. Using the leverage the hand gripping his hair gives him; he swings his leg to the side to nail Croc in the side. He drops Jason, surprise surprise, and clutches at his side swearing up and down. Two-Face was right on him though, yanking him up and holding his arms behind his back vice-grip tight.

“Motherfucker, you’ll pay for that,” Croc coughs and wipes at his mouth, blood dribbling from the side. Mental note, sore spot.

“You got a little something on your lip right there,” Jason gestures with his chin, a little smile tugging at his lips before Croc strikes him across the jaw. He groans as his head rolls back into place with a snap, “thank you, sir, may I have another?”

Ask and you shall receive Jason, ask and you shall fucking receive.

Two-Face holds him tight while Croc goes to town on his face. His nose was never going to heal right after this, so much for being a handsome male model. He’s dissociating again and man he was going to be a champion at it soon enough. _Jason Todd, cocksucker and shit-talker extraordinaire_.

The next punch twists his head back far enough that his whole spine tingles from pain. There’s this dulled ringing in his ears like a gun’s gone off and his stomach is doing barrel rolls. His mouth suddenly tastes like iron and he hawks up a tooth that, fortunately, lands on one of the gentlemen’s shoes.

“Oh man, my dentist is going to be pissed,” he sort of slurs out, his jaw already swelling from the attack.

“Enough,” the two pause long enough for Jason to work on getting his fucking breath back. _Among other things_. The world is still fuzzy and he’s limp in Two-Face’s grip as the third and forgotten man steps up in front of him. The leader, he assumes, grabs his chin roughly and drags him up so they’re inches away.

“Give me one good reason why I should waste a dollar on a scrawny beanpole like you,” Black Mask asks like the asshole he is.

“You aren’t exactly Adonis in the flesh either,” that earns him a gloved backhand. He lets his head roll to the side and just glares at him from there.

“I’m feeling gracious, ten coins.”

“Wow ten whole coins, I didn’t know I was dealing with someone so rich.”

“You should be happy you’re keeping your life.”

“And here I thought you were going to give me something valuable.”

“You’re testing my patience.”

I mean it was ten more than he had before right? He’d probably settle for a penny at this point. That was sad, wasn’t it? Putting up with this abuse for one measly coin. He wants to say he wouldn’t, he really does, but he'd lost his dignity months ago.

He keeps silent instead, lifting his head up so he was eye level with the bastard. _Oh yeah, take it while it’s hot asshole, I’ll just mentally plan out your murder_. If looks could kill was how the saying went right? Well if that were true Jason guesses Black Mask’s head should have burst right about now. Or at least, have to holes in it.

Mask breaks the staring match first, looking past him towards Two-Face and giving him a nod. Although he can’t see it he could feel that ugly face of his splitting into a wide grin before he’s roughly swung around to face the front of the alley. Arms still held tight vice as he's pushed forward.

“If you wanted to hold my hand you can just ask,” his quip gets him a harsh tug on his arm that makes him stand on the tips of his toes. Quiet, that’s what the action says. He’s surprised there isn’t a gun to his back. Maybe they think it’s more romantic this way, like carrying a new bride through the threshold.

They’re out on the street that’s nearly deserted at this time in the morning save for a few drifters with downcast eyes the second they walk by. _Don’t mind me fellas, just having a date night with my favorite boys_. Croc must sense Jason's urge to kick at one of the drifters rising, because he’s there, changing places with Two-Face, opting for no arm holding just the simple gun at his back.

“Should I be flattered?” The monster growls like a fucking animal and presses the gun harder into his skin. Raiders, not very good at accepting compliments.

Croc grabs his arm when he walks past the entrance of what must be their fuck shack, an old pharmacy with half its roof missing. Thank fuck it has a door. He’s led inside and almost immediately spots a soiled sleeping bag thrown on the ground. _Classy_.

“Geez guys, if I didn’t know any better I’d say you were in love with me.” The pistol that slams down on his head is a welcomed action. Though, it doesn’t bring the stone cold knockout he wanted because he’s up maybe several seconds or a minute later to- “get those fucking pants off.”

The world is fuzzy and the pain in his head is white and hot and blistering. He feels so far removed from the hands that grab at his ankles and drag him across the wood floor. No sleeping bag for him. A groan slips past his lips and he reaches up to feel at the back of his head. His fingers touch something wet and warm before he lets it drop down as some phantom hands start messing with his belt buckle-

”I want his mouth.”

The one at his belt hasn’t even undone the buckle before Black Mask kicks him away.

“On your knees,” he says lowly while the two others wait in the wings, breathing heavily. He waits for the world to make a bit more sense before he slowly rolls up and onto his knees. His head is pounding and he’s certain he’s got some major brain trauma going on.

“This good for you, your majesty?” Jason must be some kind of masochist. His mouth doesn’t have an off switch.

Black Mask seems to realize that himself and beckons Croc over with the crook of his finger. The man is practically leaping out of his pants, hands fumbling over the zipper. He isn’t wearing any underwear so his dick jumps out at him like a fucking demented jack in the box.

“I never thought I’d see the day I met a man with a penis that was more attractive than his face,” Jason isn't even lying this time. When Croc attempts to bump his cheek with it Jason has the fight down the urge to smack the offending appendage away. He opts to lean away instead until Mask catches his hair and holds him there. Croc then drags his dick across his face like he’s a fucking painter.

“Almost there come on I believe in you-” and then there’s an unwashed cock in his mouth. _Delicious, extra protein_.

“Watch those broke-ass teeth of yours,” Croc growls and isn't that just ironic. Jason gags and digs his nails into the rotted wood below him while he tries to avoid suffocating. Croc sets a fast rhythm, obviously content with just fucking his mouth more than anything. Man, thank God Jason doesn’t actually have to blow the guy right? That’d suck. So he just sits there, setting his own breathing pace in an attempt to match the Croc's brutal one. Choking to death on an asshole’s cock is not the way he wants to go.

However, Croc starts getting greedy and practically shoves his dick as far as it can go, like the dumb motherfucker thinks he’s going to strike gold. The move slams the Croc's lower body into his face, against Jason's broken nose, and makes him let out a sharp yelp. His teeth end up accidentally dragging along the Croc's prick as he scrambles away from the pain. Thank little miracles because the cock is quickly pulled from his mouth-

”I said watch those fuckin’ teeth!”

Croc pulls the gun from his hip and Jason can’t help but bark back. “How about you sit here getting face fucked while I wave the gun around!”

He hears Two-Face snarl before he’s unceremoniously shoved face first onto the floor. Ass up, of course, because everyone knows where this is going. He huffs and glares at the other two behind him instead of getting another peek at Croc's angry, blue-balled dick.

Black Mask gives a little nod, looking a little mad that the pre-game show ended so early. Oh well, Jason’s never been great at pleasing people. Two-Face is working on his pants, getting the belt off in record time; no doubt he’s well practiced. His pants are pulled down roughly and it brings a dissatisfied noise from Croc at his lack of an ass-

“Yeah, the view isn’t exactly great, but I hear the service is remarkable.” They ignore him and Two-Face hawks up a huge wad of spit into his hand. “We’re in a fucking pharmacy, are you really too lazy to look for lube?”

“You’re lucky you’re getting this,” Black Mask's voice rumbles from the back as Two-Face pulls out his own dick.

“I’d rather you go fucking bareback,” Jason taunts before getting another wad of spit on his ass this time. It’s disgusting, but Jason will take anything that lessens the pain, even only a little. He chances a glance back again to see Two-Face’s equally disfigured dick getting slicked up.

“Like what you see?” Two-Face smirks and gives himself a lazy stroke.

“I was just curious to see how your botched surgery to make your dick bigger went. I’m sorry for the loss of most of your penis.” Jason gets out maybe one laugh before the raider grabs his hips and yanks him up off his face and onto his dick. His spine straightens out like a fucking ruler and he howls. He’s positive this is what it feels like to be impaled, good god.

Croc is back in front of him as Two-Face pushes him onto his knees and off of his lap. He opens his mouth before being asked to. _Get it over with you living scab_. Croc is back to fucking his mouth in an instant, albeit more cautiously this time. Two-Face is leaning over him like a fucking mongrel. Panting and cursing in his ear while his blunt nails dig into the skin on his hips.

"You like that, whore?” Two-Face bites at his neck, "yeah you do." _Of course not you walking meat wallet_.

He’s going to cut their dicks off. Cut them off and nail them to his future house’s mantle, along with any other raider that followed suit. Like an altar to the wasteland’s most disturbing private parts. _Jason Todd, professional prick hunter_.

Was he allowed to cope like that? Snark and cheap laughs at his own trauma? Removing the severity one sassy quip about a raider's fuck-ugly schlong at a time. Fuck who said otherwise right? If they thought he was treating it wrong they could sit here getting an ass full while Jason sat back and critiqued how many tears they shed were appropriate--at least he didn't cry anymore. He could engage in a little therapeutic far-distance murder when the raiders got far enough anyway. Sure the hike to their bodies was going to be brutal after this, but it was worth it to see their confused faces as their own gray matter slid down their noses.

The raiders jerk him back and forth like a frenzied game of tug of war with Two-Face at his hips and Croc with his hair. Growling possessively, trying to out-pound the other while he scratches at the ground and looks anywhere but at them. He eventually settles on Mask who's been awfully silent the whole time. He’s leaning against a destroyed table, observing the three of them with narrowed eyes. He’s wearing too much to see if he’s hard or not and Jason just hopes he gets off from watching rather than doing.

He snaps back to the other two when he feels Croc shudder. Then he comes with a low moan. Jason pulls his mouth away while Croc stumbles back in the afterglow to spit out his mouthful of cum. He chokes and gags, not bothering to hide his disgust, they can kill him for it if they care so much. He doesn’t even realize Two-Face’s following along until his backside is on fire from cum getting into the internal tears he made.

Jason slams his fist down on the ground and bites his lip to muffle his shout as the raider pulls free. At least, they didn’t take forever, like horny fucking teenagers. He rolls onto his side, pants still down as the other two raiders turn away to stuff their dicks back into their pants. Good riddance. But Black Mask is right there with a gun in one hand as he kneels in front of him.

“Take your shoes off,” he motions with the gun and Jason tentatively reaches down, gritting his teeth lightly at the ache in his ass.

“A little strip tease, huh? Alright, if it’s your thing.” His voice is already rough and there’s a subtle taste of iron on his tongue. He slides off his boots and socks in relative silence, only broken by hissing in pain when he moves wrong. The finished raiders walk past them and out the door without a word.

“Don’t like an audience?” He rasps as he takes off his belt completely as if stalling will help him here. His pants and underwear follow without much fanfare, as the raider stays silent.

“Ta-da,” he holds out his hands when he’s done and Mask motions to his own pants. “Lazy,” Jason mutters under his breath before Black Mask grabs his hair and pulls him close to his own face, muzzle of the gun pressing against his jaw.

“Cut that talking shit out, it isn’t cute.”

“Should have paid me up front then.”

“I can kill you right now,” he says lowly, “put a bullet through your skull and no one would stop me.”

“I didn’t know you were into necrophilia, that’s sick man.” He’s safe for now. Black Mask won’t kill him until after he gets what he wants. Which is worrisome but would it really be that bad if he died, though? Sort of victory death for him. The raider knows this. If he gets brutal it’s because Jason is getting to him. In a twisted way that means he wins and Mask loses. It’s fucked up but so is the world and did anything ever really make sense?

Black Mask shoves him onto his back, “spread your legs,” he commands as he uses his free hand to unzip his pants. Jason does, slightly, making Black Mask have to push his legs apart so he can move in between them. _Yeah, fuck you too buddy._

“Oh fuck, I have to look at you,” he realizes as Black Mask lifts one of his legs onto his shoulder. He tries to find a spot on the ceiling to stare at until a sudden gunshot inches from his head literally steals his attention.

“You’re going to look me right in this eyes and if you close them,” he shakes his head, “let’s just say you don’t want to do that.”

“Oh,” Jason says, voice barely above a whisper, “can you not keep it up unless? You should see a doctor.”

Jason feels him line up after that and push in, completely dry. Retaliation fuck, talk about hitting below the belt man. He bites down on his lip hard enough to draw blood and practically claws up the floorboards as he tries to contain the wail of pain. He manages to keep eye contact, burning them into memory. Oh yeah, he’ll be able to hunt this guy down much easier now. There will be little room for mistake.

Black Mask is purposefully pushing in deep and carelessly, turning his head to the thigh on his shoulder and sinking his teeth in like he wants to eat it. _I knew they were fucking cannibals_. He’s nearly bitten a hole in his lip, but it feels like a knife is carving up his backside so he raises a hand to his mouth. Black Mask is on him in a second, pinning his hand to the side and leaning over him further. His eyes flinch at the hot puffs of air in his face. He starts trembling not because he’s scared or anything but because damn he is not made to bend this far.

“I’m going to s-snap in _ha_ -” his sentence stops with a sudden shout at a rough thrust that makes his back arch off the floor. The raider lets out a husky chuckle at that and Jason has the urge to kick him in the head, bullet wound be damned.

Apparently, Black Mask's a psychic too because he takes the gun and shoves the muzzle into his mouth, hitting his teeth with a loud clack.

“Open your mouth.” Jason’s never given a gun a blowjob before, this night is full of firsts. He pulls his lips up to save them from being pinched underneath the metal of the gun, coughing when the other man takes the initiative to shove it as far as he can go. He goes back to breathing through his nose, surprised it’s even possible at that point. He doesn’t try to lick it more than he has to because the taste of gunpowder makes the bile in his throat rise.

Mask leans down and he worries for a moment he’s going to try and kiss him. Except Black Mask literally latches down on his throat like a zombie, sinking his teeth in and sucks. Oh god, he’s giving him a hickey. Embarrassing. At least, the raider isn’t messing with his dick. He doesn’t think he can handle that type of humiliation again. He glares holes in the ceiling while Black Mask continues at his neck, picking up the pace like the world’s about to end. _210 years late for that, chum_.

The raider pushes in again and lets out a soft moan in his ear before coming without warning. Jason slaps the ground with a loud whimper from the abused internal tears. _Get out of me you fucking shithead_ . Black Mask rides out the ecstasy with few more shallow thrusts and pulls out. _Finally_. He sits up and grins down at him with disgusting satisfaction not moving his gun arm.

And pulls the trigger.

Jason flinches a lot more violently than he would have expected, eyes squeezing shut and freezing up. Black Mask's laugh breaks him out of the fear, smirking at him like he’s a fucking sucker.

“Out of bullets? Lucky, lucky.” Black Mask stands and zips up before Jason can even attempt to relax, tensing instead with cautious eyes. The raider reaches into his back pocket and throws a handful of coins on him, “there’s your payment. See you 'round.” It’s an insult more than anything.

Black Mask’s only out the door for a second before Jason collapses on the floor and pulls up his pants immediately despite everything.

Normally, Jason gives them a week.

They get an hour.


End file.
